Memories
by hyacinthian
Summary: It was amazing how she returned, different, and yet, still very much the same. And like she had in the past, she was leaving again. And breaking his heart. Again.


Title: Memories

Author: ScarlettMithruiel

Classification: A? R?

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: CSI does not belong to me. Belongs to CBS, etc. etc.

Author's Note: First off, thanks to Lauren for helping me with the plot, and thanks to Leslie and Matthew with the beta. Yes, this story could be classified as AU. And I tried to explain, in this fic, why Grissom is so emotionally closed off as he is, so all the flashback scenes may be horribly OOC. But it takes place before the canon, so… Anyway, either way, please try and enjoy the story.

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For some odd reason, he remembers her clearer today than any other day. Bad memories begin to blend with the good and he is lost once again. He was…so different then. His present consciousness finds it difficult to conceive that he was even like this before. But he was. A soft smile licks at his face, like the fanning of her perfume, as she began to walk towards the doorway. Yes, the doorway. She had become immortalized in his mind in that doorway. Her head, dark brown curls dripping decadently on her shoulder, leaning against the solid frame, her hand placed on her hip, with a genuine smile. How open he was then, how trusting.

He is brought back to reality with the shuffling of papers, the professional rustling he longed to never leave. He had borne the brunt of too much pain, internally embroiling, to ever wish to leave again. Her hair is shorter now, and straighter, but she is the same person. She's leaving. Again. She's breaking his heart. Again.

The first time it had happened, there were different circumstances. She worked there and he worked there. It had been where they'd met. At work. Both had been so wholly enamored with certain facets of work. They had bonded over that similarity. Her name would never be repeated. It was before Catherine's time. Before any of them. And it was too sacred to him for it to fall from his lips again.

He hears the squeaking of hinges and his head tilts upward, ever so slightly, to catch her leaving. She is waiting for him to ponder, his rational side claims. But his emotional side argues something else. She is leaving again. He is going insane.

Yes, he had felt rage grasp him that night. He had stumbled into their apartment, willingly drunk on love, and found her engaged in intercourse with someone else. His rational side argued it was stupid to think that applying a technical name on the act would make it hurt less. His emotional side said nothing.

He remembered the scene, having catalogued it in his mind in the manner he similarly catalogued especially gruesome crime scenes. Her legs splayed out in angles, legs he too had worshipped with his own flesh. Her hair splayed out over the off-white pillows she had brought. She had paused mid-coitus and ordered the other man to leave. That was when she began to pack. Their dialogue rings in his head with intensified pain.

"It didn't mean anything, Grissom." He remembers the soft background sounds as she dressed herself.

"It still doesn't change the fact that I caught you." She paused and looked at him with sympathy in her eyes. His confusion emanated and she set her lips into a grim smile. This will be unpleasant, she realizes, but it must be done.

"Not him. You." He stopped and she continued to pack again. Endless item retrieving and careless tossing. Her suitcase is bulging now, and she will break it. No question.

"…it didn't mean anything?" His voice is quavering with emotion he is trying to conceal. He can't distinguish whether it is rage or immense sadness. He found his voice, even when he is despairing. "_We _didn't mean anything?"

"Grissom…" She sighed. Yes, she had always had immense sympathy for the victim's families. And she had always been an emotional person. She hated doing unpleasant things to people. Guilt. Always guilt. He used to feel sorry for her. He used to think that she shouldn't feel guilty.

"What?" His voice is seething, his tone low and curt. He sounded dangerous, she realized, and she's never heard this side of him before. She grasped his wrists and he tugged them away.

"I didn't mean to lead you on. He just…he entranced me," she babbled, trying to explain. _Entranced you? _He wants to ask. _What the hell does that mean? _"It was only when he kissed me that I realized I don't love you."

"You don't love me," he repeats with bitterness that only love can bring. He knew he loved her. He loved her with an immense passion. People who knew them both had said he practically worshipped the ground she walked on. She was his gift. And someone had stolen it.

He began to hear their relationship replay in his head. Her countless whisperings, the scent of her hair, the feel of her in his arms. The realization sets in. _It was all a lie. _And with the dawning of the realization, it repeats. Like an evil mantra, his inner voice keeps repeating it with no end in sight. He saw the white of rage, but he slammed his eyes shut and released a yell he can't hear. She heard it. He opened his eyes and she looked startled. Frightened, even.

"Grissom." The haunting voice with the pity and the sympathy is returning to him.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going with him, Grissom. I can't stay here any longer. Not with you." Her words claw at his flesh with each syllable. He can feel them tearing when the sound of her heels on his floor begins.

"Don't leave." His voice rings out with a boyish quixotic quality. She looks back, her dark curls swishing with the movement. "We can…work this out somehow." His idealism strikes at her heart again, but she doesn't love him. She never had. It was all wishful thinking. It was all to complement the professional adulation he had. She smiles sadly and walks off into the hallway, shutting the door behind her.

Before he can stop himself, or even recognize his plan of action, he grasps a picture frame and hurls it agains the wall, relishing the sound of the glass shattering. Like his heart. There is a knocking at the door. The clicks of her heels are a fanfare to her arrival. She stands at the midpoint between the chairs positioned in front of his desk and the doorway. "Did you sign it yet, Grissom?"

"Sign what?"

"The…uh…letter of resignation I gave you." Her voice is steady yet unsure at the same time. He stares down at the white paper in his hand.

"Sara, don't…don't leave."

"I…have to."

And all of a sudden, it is the past again, crashing again to greet the rocky shore with unerring force. And he is the one found in the wrong place at the wrong time. He is the one being ushered into its salty, watery depths. And he is the one that will drown in it…again. "Why?"

"I just can't do it anymore." _I don't love you anymore. _Reflections of a whole, he muses. She catches his eye, and spotting something unfamiliar to her, she takes it as a sign to leave. She asks for him to sign it and return it to her tomorrow.

She had…rejuvenated him, in a sense. Dragged him, intent on separating him from his much-loved cocoon. And now? She too was leaving. He would be nothing again. He would work like a drone bee, constantly, with only one purpose in life. His heart would be encased, never to be revealed again.

It was inevitable that he would achieve a life similar to his precious insects and arachnids. It was repulsive, the things they did to each other. Yes, he thought, reaching for his pen. It was repulsive what they did to each other and themselves. With startling precision, his signature stained her beloved paper. He folded it at the creases and tucks it away.


End file.
